Safe and Sound
by BryonieAnne
Summary: Our favorite Sherlock characters in the world of The Hunger Games. No knowledge of THG needed, and the story is very different as it goes on. How will district 12 tribute John Watson react to being forced into the games, and meeting the one person who could make him whole. Eventual Johnlock. Please read & review!
1. The Reaping

**Hello! I was watching the Hunger Games earlier and I thought to myself, what would Johnlock do in this situation? Here's my take! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, The Hunger Games or its characters, and I am making no money off this. I'm just having fun! The title comes from the song of the same name by Taylor Swift!**

**If you know a little about the Hunger Games, then you should be able to enjoy it! If you have any questions about something shoot me a pm. A few changes: the gender of the tributes isn't** **relevant, there aren't enough girls in the Sherlockverse, so some districts get two boys. Hope that's okay :) also Sherlock's family is originally from district 12, but Sherlock snuck into 9 and no one made a fuss. Not much is known about district 9, so I'm going to play with the mystery of that a bit, that's why Mycroft is a victor of 12 but Sherlock will be a tribute from 9. It takes a while for Sherlock to be introduced but it'll be worth it! Okay, without further ado: Safe and Sound!**

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John Watson groaned wearily as he wrapped the cotton bandage around his thigh. The cotton was soon stained a deep red and he sighed, pulling his pant leg down to cover the wound. Harry would yell at him for weeks over his carelessness, but he pushed that out of his mind. The only thing he would focus on today was the sound of animals creeping through the bushes, and the swish as he let go of his bowstring.

He heard the telltale crash as the squirrel fell out of the tree and he rushed to pick it up. He'd hit it straight through the eye, like always. He pulled the arrow out and wiped the blood off on the grass beside him. He glanced up at the sky; the sun was still relatively low in the sky, still a few hours until the reaping.

He walked back into the district, limping slightly, and made his way to the hob to sell his haul. Thanks to his steady hand and quick reflexes, he had managed to avoid taking out tesserae as much as possible. That being said, John still had his name entered 21 times. He was glad his little sister was only entered once. Hopefully the odds would be in her favour.

After trading some of his game for other necessary supplies, John made the long walk home, his game bag light, but his thoughts heavy. He always hated the day of the reaping, and he doubted that would ever change. Even though he didn't have his name in the draw as much as some people, there was still the very real possibility of being chosen to compete in the Hunger Games, and a 1 in 24 chance of survival. John didn't like the odds.

At home, Harry was curled up on her small mattress, a pretty blue dress seeming to swallow her whole. John had tried to reassure her many times, "this is your first reaping, Harry, and you've only got your name in once. There's no way you'll be chosen." But Harry was still nervous, and John couldn't blame her. He sat her up on the bed and tucked her short blond hair behind her ear. "I've got some bread from the hob, and you've got cheese from your goat. Why don't you go get it served up while I get ready? And we'll have squirrel soup for dinner, okay?" He rubbed her back soothingly and Harry managed a small smile before getting up to prepare the food.

John put on his cleanest button up shirt and a pair of trousers he had from when he went to school. He looked at himself in the mirror and sighed. In a few hours the reaping would be over and he could go back to hunting and forgetting about the Capitol.

"Why are you limping, John?" Harry was placing thin goat cheese slices on the few pieces of warm bread John had managed to acquire, but she stared at him disapprovingly.

"Don't worry about it. I bandaged it up, I'll be fine." He slumped down at their small dining table. "Just got a scratch on the barbed wire fence."

Harry frowned, her forehead creasing and making her seem much older than she was. "You never cut yourself on the fence."

"Well I did today. It's just because I'm a little on edge today. I'll be fine tomorrow, you'll see."

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After their bread and cheese, John led Harry down to the square where the reaping would take place. He gripped her little hand and tried to be reassuring, but he was failing pretty miserably.

"Harry, go over in that line, okay? They'll prick your finger and take some blood to sign you in. It'll barely hurt. I'll be in this line. Look for me in the crowd." John gave her a small push in the direction she was supposed to go and smiled sadly at her retreating back.

Clara Jones was ahead of him in the line, and he poked her in the shoulder. She turned stiffly and tried to smile at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Hi, John. How are you?"

"About as good as anyone can be today. How are you feeling, Clara?"

She shook her head. "I'm terrified. I've got my name in sixteen times this year."

John smiled at her. "I've got mine in twenty one times. We'll be all right. I've heard Anthony Tyler has his name in fifty seven times!"

Clara laughed a little at that, and let herself relax a little. The Peacekeepers pricked their fingers, and Clara and John stood side by side in the square. John looked around for Harry, and he saw her a a few rows away, standing with her age group. He waved at her and she jerked her hand slightly in return. John returned his attention to the stage.

A woman with bubblegum pink lips and crazy hair stood before the mic, relaying facts about the Capitol and the Hunger Games, but John was barely listening. He'd heard it before, they all had, every single year. He watched the terrified faces of the children around him, all scared that today their luck would run out.

As he watched, the entire crowd visibly tensed and he returned his gaze to the stage, where Effie Trinket was waving her arm around in a large bowl of papers. As she pulled out a slip, everyone in the square held their breath.

"And our first tribute is," she opened the small slip, "Harriet Watson!"

John felt his heart stop and Clara gripped his hand. He saw his small, young, innocent sister begin the terrifying walk towards the stage. She was only twelve. A twelve year old shouldn't be forced to fight for her life in an arena. As John watched a small tear wind it's way down her cheek, he realized what he needed to do.

"I volunteer!" He rushed into the middle aisle, where Harry was walking to her doom and he went to grab her and throw her behind him. You can't have her, he thought, take me instead. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Behind him, Harry began to scream. He ached to go to her, but he couldn't. They wouldn't let him touch her. He saw Clara reach for Harry out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to them. "Take care of her, Clara. Keep her safe."

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**I hope you liked it! More to come, I'm having so much fun writing this, I just can't stop! Reviews are great, they give me the courage to keep posting :)**


	2. The Capitol

**Chapter 2 coming at you! John gets his first taste of Sherlock Holmes. Please review, reviews are love.**

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John couldn't focus on the rest of the reaping. He vaguely realized that his fellow tribute was Mike Stamford, a boy his age. He could feel his eyes glazing over as they lead him into the holding room, and he could barely keep his composure as he boarded the train to the Capitol.

After sitting in his compartment for hours, sobbing and screaming, John emerged to the main carriage. He was overwhelmed by the smell of beef, vegetables, potatoes and wine as he stared at the table. Every dish he'd ever had, and many that he hadn't, were placed on the table. He saw Mike, who, like John, probably hasn't eaten in days, shovel food into his mouth like it was his last meal.

John joined him at the table and was introduced to Effie (again), and Mycroft Holmes, the only victor from district twelve. Mycroft, it turned out, would be their mentor for the games.

"So," Mike spoke around his mouthful of food, which seemed to displease Mycroft greatly, "how do we win?"

Mycroft frowned at Mike, but sighed and spoke. "Step number one, try not to die."

John laughed coldly. "Really? I never would have guessed." He stabbed a potato with his fork angrily.

"John, that's the only thing I can teach you. You try not to die, and do whatever you can to keep yourself alive." Mycroft spoke fluidly, not showing any reaction to John's outburst. "What are your strengths?"

John shrugged his shoulders, but Mike responded happily, "I can't do anything, but John can shoot a squirrel from a mile away. My mum always buys a squirrel from him at the hob, and she says he always shoots them right in the eye."

John stared at Mike, then, wondering how this boy knew so much about him. He couldn't remember ever speaking to Mike, even though they were the same age. Mike smiled shyly. "My parents run the bakery. You trade your squirrels with her for bread."

"Oh! You're Diane's son. I'm so sorry, I didn't recognize you," John felt horrible. He normally wasn't this rude. "You must be strong then, hauling around flour, right? That'll be useful." He glanced at Mycroft for support, but he only gave a slight nod.

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When they finally reached the Capitol, they were brought to a lush penthouse, filled with comfy chairs, large windows, and more food than they could possibly eat. "Wow, all this food could feed district 12 for an entire month," John remarked wryly. Mycroft tutted at him.

As they sat down to dinner, Effie laid out their schedules. "First thing in the morning, you'll be brought to your prep team, who will make you perfect for the parade of tributes. Then, for the next few days you'll be training, followed by your one-on-one sessions with the game makers. Then you'll be interviewed me Caesar Flickerman, and finally the games will begin! It's my job to make sure you're on time!" She was so happy, John almost forgot he'd practically been sentenced to death. Almost.

Mycroft cleared his throat to demand the tributes' attention. "During the parade tomorrow, try to act like you don't despise the people of the Capitol," he seemed to focus more on John as he spoke.

"They're sentencing us to death! Of course I hate them!" John could feel his blood boil at the fact that in the same city as him, people were betting on when he'd die.

"I'm not trying to change that fact, John. I'm merely trying to tell you to act like you like them. You need sponsors. That'll be my focus once you're in the arena, but if you openly hate them, I won't be able to send you any help."

John knew Mycroft was right, but he didn't want to admit to it. He knew that a sponsor could be the difference between life and death in the arena, he just didn't want to act like he liked them.

"So, how do we make them like us?" Mike asked as he drenched his mashed potatoes with gravy. "Smile and wave?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Something like that."

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John was jostled awake the following morning by three very touchy-feely stylists. The poked and prodded him, cleaned and waxed him, combed and petted him. The wound on his leg got a few nasty "tsk tsk!" remarks, and they layered in a salve John had never seen before. After a few minutes he looked down at the once large cut, that was now merely a small pucker. Another few minutes and he couldn't tell he'd been scratched at all.

He was then thrown into a large, pristine room and told to wait. He didn't really have much choice, since he was pretty sure they locked the door behind them. So he spent the time poking at his leg, wondering how on earth they'd healed him so quickly. He'd always assumed the people of the Capitol were much better off than the people of the districts, but he'd never imagined this. It made him a little angry, though, considering Old Man Archer had died just last week from an infected cut that the Capitol could have patched up easily.

He didn't have much time to wallow in his anger, though, since his lead stylist entered the room flamboyantly. He introduced himself as Cinna and John couldn't help but take a liking to him.

"So, John," Cinna said after a few minutes of learning all he could about John. "You know I have to design a costume for you for tonight. One that works with your district's industry."

John knew this much. Coal Mining was district 12's industry, and he remembered a lot of Coal Miner costumes of Hunger Games past. Cinna seemed to read his mind.

"No, I'm not dressing you up like a miner. I've got something special planned for you."

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John stood near his chariot, dressed in a tight black jumpsuit. He was trying to act happy, just like he'd been told to do, while he talked to Mike and Mycroft. Mike kept pulling at the suit, complaining it was too tight and John had to laugh. Mike had definitely put on a few pounds since he'd started eating Capitol food.

"Maybe you should go easy on the cream pies, Mike," John teased, which earned him a punch to the arm.

"I might as well fatten up before the arena. It's better to die happy than hungry, right Mycroft?"

John glanced at the older man, and saw that his attention was focused on someone else entirely. John followed his gaze to the profile of another tribute. He watched as the tribute visibly tensed under his gaze, before turning to face him.

John was frozen, unable to look away. Crystal clear blue-gray eyes locked into his own a refused to surrender. The tribute's hair was inky black, curly and disheveled. His cheekbones stood out prominently, but John could tell it wasn't from malnutrition. His upper lip formed a Cupid's bow more perfect than any bow he'd ever shot, and the corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly.

As John watched, the tribute made his way over to where he, Mike and Mycroft were standing. As he got closer he finally released his grip on John's eyes, long enough to look at Mycroft.

"Ah, I'd hoped not to see you here," his mentor spoke to the tribute, who smiled minutely. "This puts me in a rather uncomfortable position."

"It shouldn't," the tribute finally spoke, his deep baritone voice like velvet against the air. "You needn't worry about me, Mycroft. I can handle myself."

"Yes, well, it can't be helped. I was unaware that you were chosen."

"I wasn't," that chocolate voice spoke again, drifting through John's ears like a melody meant just for him. "I volunteered." He turned his gaze once again to John.

"Of course you did. These are the tributes I'm responsible for. Mike Stamford, and-"

"John Watson. Master hunter and healer in district twelve. Volunteered in place of your sister, cut your leg just before the reaping. Both your parents are dead, your father was a miner caught in an explosion, your mother was a tribute like yourself."

"That's enough," Mycroft hissed at the curly haired boy. "My apologies John, he can be quite rude."

John was awestruck. "That... was amazing."

"You think so?" Asked the strange boy, who knew everything about him with one look.

"Extraordinary... Quite extraordinary." John grinned. The boy smiled back at him.

"That's not what people normally say."

John scoffed. "What do people normally say?"

"Piss off." The boy's smile was blinding, John couldn't stop staring at this strange but beautiful person.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and I'm from district 9."

"Wait," John was confused. "Holmes?"

Mycroft sighed loudly. "Sherlock is my brother."

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**Please review!**


	3. The Tributes

**Next up, the tributes! Please take note: all tributes are between the ages of 12 and 18!**

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After a few more moments of bickering with Mycroft, Sherlock returned to his fellow tribute, a girl from district 9. She was shorter than him, and her hair shone a coppery red. It was pulled up, out of her face, and wrapped in a low bun on the nape of her neck. As a costume, she wore a beige silk dress, which John assumed was supposed to represent grain. Sherlock, it seemed, had decided against wearing a costume. He simply stood in a black suit, the button up shirt underneath a deep purple. John decided it suited him very nicely.

"Mycroft," John broke the terse silence that had fallen over their group since Sherlock had left. "Why is your brother from a different district?" He'd never heard of that happening before, he wasn't even sure it was possible.

"A story for another time, perhaps," Mycroft spoke calmly, his blank face void of emotion. "Take a look at your competitors John. They're all that matter, now."

John knew he was right, so he complied. A knowledge of his tributes might save him. He glanced anxiously around the stables where everyone was getting ready for the parade. He figured he might as well start at district 1 and move downwards. He found the chariot emblazoned with a shining "1" easily.

District One's industry was luxury items. John watched as a boy and girl, decked out in gold, danced and twirled next to their chariot. He thought back to the readings he'd watched on the train to the Capitol. Hailing from district 1, the first of the career tributes were Jim Moriarty and Irene Adler.

John clearly remembered Jim's beady eyes and calm demeanor, although something about the unassuming character set him on edge. Next to him, Irene was shining, her crimson lips and sea-green eyeliner seemed to jump off the screen at him. John noticed her lips were still a striking shade of red, but her eyeliner was gold, to match her skin tight gown. She seemed equally as dangerous as her counterpart.

Next was District two: masonry. John saw the two male tributes pulling at their suits, both eerily resembling Peacekeepers. John recognized them as Greg Lestrade, whose brown hair seemed to be flecked with gray even at his young age, and Scott Dimmock, whose demeanor seemed to demand respect, although no one complied.

District Three's industry was technology, and the tributes were both dressed like microchips, with blue, green and red wires running across their black suits. The tributes, who john recognized from the videos as Sally Donovan and David Anderson, were bickering loudly, their arms swinging to illustrate their point.

Following that was District Four, where the tributes, a young blonde boy and brunette girl whose names John couldn't remember, were dressed in thick green overalls with large black rubber boots. John laugh as the two tripped and waddled around in their boots.

District Five represented Power, but John saw nothing interesting about the tributes: two boys who's eyes shifted constantly. Were they related? Their resemblance was eerie.

District Six, transportation, was as disappointing as the previous district. The tributes were two girls, one wiry and tall, another short and stumpy.

District Seven was lumber, and John shivered as he watched the older boy tribute swing an axe with ease. The younger boy next to him couldn't have been more than fourteen, and he was drowning in his checkered shirt.

Next was District Eight, textiles, and John laughed as he saw a young girl screech about the improper seams of her dress. The boy beside her groaned loudly, stating that they were going to die, her seams were unimportant. John giggled as the girl turned scarlet.

Next was the district John had been waiting to see, District Nine, grain, with the impossible boy and his plain companion. Not much was known about District 9. It was obvious that they had loads of farmland and supplied all the grain to Panem, but John remembered hearing talk about large buildings in the district, and that only authorized personnel were allowed inside.

John had been staring at Sherlock for a solid two minutes now, and the beautiful eyed boy turned to meet John's stare. He looked at the ground, nervous, but he could feel Sherlock's eyes still boring into him, drilling deep into his soul. John decided to move to the next district before he embarrassed himself any more.

District Ten was livestock, and John watched a large boy, dressed in jean overalls, poke at a young girl, dressed as a cow. She looked incredibly put out about her costume, but she wore it with dignity, refusing to let anyone laugh at her.

Next was District Eleven, agriculture, and John looked at the small pair. District eleven was the poorest district aside from twelve, and John shuddered as he saw the sunken eyes and protruding bellies that showed their malnutrition. The girl was smiling though, and she gripped her fellow tribute's hand tightly. He, on the other and, stared into space, as though he couldn't believe where he was.

That left only John's home, District Twelve, Mining. The poorest district, and the laughing stock of the rest of Panem. John, determined to look intimidating when the other tributes looked at him, stuck his chest out and stood as tall as his little legs would allow. He would show all the tributes that he wasn't afraid, and that the neither the Games, the Capitol, or the President had control over him.

As he moved to board his chariot to begin the parade, John watched as Sherlock shot him a sly sink from his position in line. John made an amendment to his previous statement: maybe Sherlock had control over him, a little.

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**Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


	4. The Promise

**okay, I've started going off book now! Sherlock knows a lot more than he lets on but, as always, John is loyal. Hope you enjoy!**

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After the Tribute Parade, John Watson flopped down on the large, plush four-poster bed in his designated room. He was entirely exhausted- he _had_ just been set on fire. He turned on the large, wall-size TV in his room, and flipped to a channel that showed a forest, like the one he used to hunt in just outside district twelve.

He smiled when he heard the sound of the birds, and other small animals that inhabited forests. It made him feel at home, at least for a little while, and he soon found himself drifting off to sleep.

When he awoke, he rushed through breakfast before making his way to the training rooms with Mike. All the tributes stood in a large group while an instructor laid down rules and guidelines. As John looked around, he felt a jolt through his body when he remembered that in a few days, they would all be enemies. When John met his end, it would be at the hands of someone in that room. The thought was cold and it hurt, so John swallowed it down just as the instruct it's speech ended. He then tried to decide which station would best suit him.

He would have loved to go to the archery station; it had been too long since he'd felt the hard wood of a bow in his hand. Mycroft, however, had told John to stay away from the bows, at least until his one-on-one. John knew he was right, he didn't want anyone to know his strengths until they had to, or else they could defend against it.

John saw Sherlock puttering around at the camouflage station, and decided to join him. Sherlock didn't look up when John approached, he seemed absorbed in drawing on the back of his hand. "John, this is Molly Hooper. She's the other tribute from my district." Sherlock spoke as his brush continued to draw a pattern in his skin.

"Hello," said Molly, and John recognized her as the plain girl with copper hair who stood beside Sherlock at the parade. John smiled at her and shook her outstretched hand, which was covered in colored paint. "Oops, I've smudged it. I'll have to start again, Sherlock."

Sherlock groaned in anguish but nodded. As John watched Molly wipe off and reapply the paint, he couldn't help but notice the pattern.

"You've drawn a DNA double helix... On your hand. What's that got to do with camouflage?" John asked, after noticing that Sherlock had painted the same on his own hand. Sherlock finally looked up at John and raised a single brow.

"Yes," his voice was quiet, almost contemplative. "How does someone from district twelve know about DNA?" His eyes searched John, roaming all over his body, and John couldn't help but feel that Sherlock was learning everything about him with a single stare.

"My mum taught me. My grandmother taught her. Before the Dark Days, my great, great grandmother was from district three, back when we had doctors and scientists. She moved to district twelve, but she taught her family everything she knew. Why do you know about it? Your industry is grain."

Sherlock smiled at him, a bright grin, and chuckled darkly. "That's not important. Molly, I think I'm done here." He glanced down at the drawing on her hand and grimaced. "You'll need to try again, you've messed up a few of the bonds. Come along, John. Let's go to that station." He pointed to the edible plants station.

The station was empty, apparently the other tributes thought their time was better spent in knife-throwing or archery. Even the instructor seemed to have buggered off somewhere. Sherlock sat down in the middle of a small hologram forest and started flipping through pages in a book. With every page flipped, the small snippet of forest changed, so as to show where best to find every plant. John sat opposite him on the floor.

John decided now was as good a time as any to try and get to know the curly-headed boy. "How did you know all that stuff about me yesterday?"

Sherlock smirked and put down the book, after finding a page that seemed to conjure up the thickest fake forest around them. "I didn't know, I saw. But that's not important right now. We'll have more time to actually talk in the arena. I reckon we only have a few more minutes of solitude before we're found and I have a much more pressing matter to discuss with you."

John waited anxiously, but Sherlock simply stared at him. "Well? What's the pressing matter?"

"Right," Sherlock shook his head slightly, as though his concentration had been broken. "Has my brother said anything weird to you?"

"What?" John was confused, but Sherlock pressed his palms to either side of john's face.

"Think, John," he spoke quickly but quietly, his deep eyes boring into john's still ones. "Anything at all. Something out of place, that wouldn't have made any sense at all."

John closed his eyes and tried hard to remember every conversation he'd had with Mycroft. He replayed every one in his head.

"After the parade yesterday he said something about a jabberjay," John said nervously, unsure if that meant anything at all. Sherlock grinned though, and nodded for him to continue. "He said 'jabberjays like to play with fire, but sometimes they don't get burned. I've met eight or nine such birds.' I thought I was delusional from exhaustion."

"Brilliant!" Sherlock jumped onto his feet and John scrambled to do the same. "You're amazing, John."

John smiled, he wasn't told that very often. "I can't see you anymore at training," Sherlock continued and John felt his face fall. Sherlock noticed and put a hand on John's shoulder, ducking his head to meet his eyes. "It's dangerous. I need you to do one thing for me, John. When we enter the arena we have 30 seconds before we can step off our podiums. Find me. I need you to promise you'll find me and follow me. Can you promise me that?"

John shrugged. "How do you know I won't kill you?"

"I trust you," Sherlock said as he turned to leave their small forest. John opened his mouth to ask about the jabberjay nonsense, but Sherlock seemed to read his mind. He walked back to where John was standing and placed both his hands on either side of the smaller boy's face. "There's going to be a rebellion, John. I have a plan but I can't do it without you. I need you. Do you trust me?"

John Watson knew there was no earthly reason he should trust Sherlock Holmes. He knew that to win the games one of them had to die. But in that moment, with Sherlock's hands on his cheeks, he trusted him with every fibre of his being. "Yes."

Sherlock smiled and kissed him on the forehead. "Stay alive, and find me."

John watched Sherlock walk away, out of the forest, and back into the real world. John didn't know how he'd stay alive long enough to find Sherlock, but he knew he'd die trying.

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**Hope you liked, please review! The story will be much less based on the trilogy now, pretty much the only similarity will be the universe.**


	5. The Score

**Thanks for your reviews! Keep them coming, they keep me motivated! Today we get to know Molly, and the indescribable** **Moriarty. What will he do?**

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Training over the next few days was tedious. Every morning John awoke, ate breakfast, went to training, had supper, the retired to bed. Mike tried to cheer John up during the training sessions, and although John appreciated it, he always kept an eye on Sherlock.

Sherlock, it seemed, had no visible talents. He merely stood to the side at the station he occupied, watching every tribute with a cold, calculating stare. John didn't know if he could shoot, throw knives, or swing around a blunt object enough to stay alive in the games. There was also the possibility, John realized, that Sherlock was hiding his abilities from the other tributes, just like Mycroft had advised John do, so that everyone underestimated him. He decided it was probably the latter; Mycroft had won the Hunger Games, most likely through his wit, so Sherlock could probably do the same.

John broke out of his reverie and saw that Molly Hooper, the other tribute from district nine, was walking towards him. He smiled warily at her and noticed that Sherlock was staring at him from across the room.

"Hello, John," her voice was quiet, almost soothing. "He wanted me to tell you something." Her eyes shifted quickly to the side, then back again, as if she was motioning towards Sherlock. "Do not trust Jim Moriarty. And remember your promise."

As though he'd heard his name (which is impossible, Molly was speaking much too quietly) Jim Moriarty from district one started strutting towards them. He wasn't wearing his golden suit anymore, just the regular track suit like everyone else, but John couldn't help but feel there was a regal quality about him.

"I don't believe we've met," his voice was clear and commanding, but John refused to shrink away from it. "I'm Jim Moriarty. You must be John Watson, from district twelve. And Molly Hooper, Sherlock's little friend." His smile seemed genuine, but Molly's eyes widened and her mouth curled into a grimace. Anyone that could coax that kind of reaction out of a sweet girl like Molly, wasn't to be trusted.

"Hi Jim," John forced his face to stay blank, even though his insides were conflicting. The boy in front of him seemed to demand fear and respect, and he couldn't help but feel like he was getting caught up in a sort of war between Jim and Sherlock. Was that really where John wanted to be? He could ignore his promise to Sherlock, go his own way, and possibly stay out of the unknown feud, or follow Sherlock and face it head on. Before his mind could weigh the pros and cons, his heart made the choice. "Molly and I were just discussing what the arena might be like."

Molly was flawless at continuing the ruse, and John wondered how often she'd done this. "Yes, I hope it's not ice and snow like the arena a few years back. I'd rather die warm than cold," she giggled, a twinkling sound, and Moriarty quirked an eyebrow.

"I see," he said. He saw Sherlock watching from across the room and waved at him happily. "Molly I think you'd better make sure Irene doesn't gobble precious Sherlock up." Sure enough, Irene Adler had made her way to Sherlock, and her arm was snaking around his waist. She was whispering in his ear, her scarlet lips almost touching the lobe. Molly let out a loud huff and rushed back to her fellow tribute.

John didn't have much time to process the reasoning behind the anger and jealousy boiling in his stomach, before Jim grabbed his bicep and squeezed. "You know your stuff, Watson." His voice was low, harsh, and almost cutting. "You're useful to me. I can bring you to the end, John. Everyone here is making alliances, think twice before you make yours." He reminded John of a snake: his grip string and unrelenting, his voice sharp and poisonous, his eyes piercing and probing.

In a flash, Moriarty's careful mask had returned, and he smiled at John. No longer was he the vicious snake, now he seemed smart and sensible. John shivered, just who was Moriarty?

* * *

Lunch that day was quiet and somber. The one-on-one sessions would commence after the meal, and the nervousness of the tributes was palpable. Tonight they would receive their marks, out of thirteen, so the sponsors would know their chances. John shivered as he scooped potatoes into his mouth.

Mike had sat down beside him, and was babbling happily about his foray into camouflage, and how it took Donovan and Anderson ten minutes to find him standing against a tree. John tried to smile at his happiness, but his nerves were getting in the way.

He wasn't nervous about the scores, necessarily. He supposed he'd do what he could, and try to get by with the score he got. No, his nerves were thanks to the snake eyes of Jim Moriarty, who was staring at him across the table. He forced down a few more spoonfuls of potatoes.

As mike continued with his excitement, the boy on John's other side joined the conversation. "Anderson and Donovan are normally good at spotting out of place things, so that's really impressive, Mike."

"Thanks, Lestrade! I didn't think I'd hidden that well," Mike babbled some more, and a few spots down, John saw Sherlock laughing.

* * *

A few hours later, only John and Mike remained waiting for their chance to shine. Once they were alone, Mike asked John if he would shoot the bows and John nodded. Mike said he'd probably throw some weight around and do some camouflage.

It was a tense wait, and finally the door opened. A voice called out his name and John stood shakily.

_Make them remember you,_ Mycroft had said. _They'll be bored, so get their attention._

So that's exactly what he did.

* * *

"You did WHAT?" Mycroft spluttered, and John couldn't help but laugh loudly at the absurdity of his situation.

"They were ignoring me, and were all feasting on a pig. So I... Shot the apple out of the pig's mouth."

Mycroft was trying to hold in his laughter, and to his credit he was doing a good job. He shook his head and tried to look disapproving, but it didn't stick. Mike and Cinna could barely keep down the food they'd eaten, because they were laughing so hard, and John could help but feel a little proud of himself.

"You said to make them remember me, Mycroft, so that's what I did."

Mycroft let out a breath and regained his composure. "I didn't mean attempt to murder them."

"I didn't. If I wanted to kill them, they'd be dead," John smirked, which earned him a heavy clap on the back from Mike.

They settled on the couch to watch the scores, and John's previous joviality left him. Mycroft gripped his shoulder and whispered to him, "I'm sure you'll do fine."

John grimaced as Irene Adler received an 8, and Jim Moriarty got a 10. Scott Dimmock and Greg Lestrade from district two got a 7 and 8 respectively. Anderson from three got a 6, and his partner Donovan recieved a 7. After many tributes John didn't remember, they reached district nine. Molly Hooper got a 6, and John was happy for her. Sherlock Holmes, who hasn't done anything in training, received a 10. John watched as Mycroft allowed himself a tight-lipped smile. There was an excited "woohoo!" shouted through the flat as Mike Stamford got a 7.

Soon enough, John saw his own face on the screen, and his hands clenched so tight he'd later have half moon indents on his palm from his nails. When the white number flashed on the screen, he almost passed out. He'd received an 11. The highest score of this year's Games.

"John," Mycroft looked nervous, and John was confused. He'd gotten the highest score, wouldn't that be good for the sponsors? They'd be tripping over themselves to send him items. So why did Mycroft look so somber?

"What?"

"They've labeled you as the biggest target. People will try to get you out first." The look in Mycroft's eyes frustrated John. He could hold his own. He stood up angrily and walked towards his bedroom.

"Mycroft," he called over his shoulder just before he'd left the room, "I'd like to see them try."

* * *

John fell into a fitful sleep that night. He was haunted by Moriarty's words, and a small part (okay, a big part) of him growled in frustration when his thoughts replayed the image of Irene wrapping herself around Sherlock. He fought to get rid of the image, but it stuck around, taunting and teasing him.

Why did he feel like this about that particular image? Irene was free to do what she wanted, and he hardly knew Sherlock. He tried to tell himself he was being illogical, but that had never stopped him before. Yes, he hardly knew Sherlock, but from the moment he laid eyes on his, he felt some deep connection, that he knew he'd never be able to ignore.

He did, however, try to ignore the following images his mind conjured up, which mostly consisted of John taking the place of Irene, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. His efforts were unsuccessful and he drifted off to sleep with images of himself wrapped up with Sherlock dancing in his head

* * *

**Hope you liked! Review, please? :)**


	6. The Interview

**Hello! Here's chapter 6, coming** **at you! Hope you like it!**

* * *

John woke up devastated. He'd dreamt all night of Sherlock's crystal eyes, his inky curls, and his porcelain neck. In his dream, Sherlock's eyes never left him, they were constantly studying him, ignoring the advances of Irene and Molly. Then he would smile; a special smile that was meant only for John, and he would wrap his long pale arms around the stout blond. They would lean in close and Sherlock would kiss his forehead again, like he'd done the last time they spoke.

But John knew it couldn't happen. He was awake now, which meant tomorrow he would be entering the arena, for what could possibly be the last Hunger Games of his lifetime. In fact, it was highly probable. The gamemakers had pegged him with a high score, knowing he'd get weeded out by the stronger tributes.

He tried to feel regret over volunteering, but came up empty handed. Harry was safe for another year thanks to him. He'd met some great people, Mike and Molly, even Lestrade was a good bloke. And, the icing on the cake, he'd met the wonderful Sherlock Holmes. He was an enigma; the only man John feared yet was intrigued by. He was the only man John had let under his skin. He'd go wherever Sherlock asked him, even if it was the last thing he'd ever do.

* * *

He stood nervously in his dressing room. He'd had his hair dyed and combed, his eyebrows plucked, and his face covered in makeup. They'd washed him, scrubbed him, and dried him within an inch of his life, and then they left him alone, to sit and wait for Cinna.

He wasn't scared of his stylist, of course. He was scared of what they'd dress him in, and he was incredibly scared of being interviewed on live television, where everyone in all of Panem could see him. He tried to breathe. Perspective. He could be dead in less than 48 hours, being on television should be the least of his worries. Right?

He let out a breath as Cinna entered the room and hugged him. "I know you're worried, but you'll do fine." He spoke as he pulled a dark tuxedo out of the large closet beside John.

"Yeah, it's just an interview, right? What's the worst that could happen?" John laughed anxiously.

"I wasn't talking about the interview, John." Cinna winked and started to help John into the trousers that were black as night. "We added some sparkle to the black," Cinna explained as the light reflected off the trousers, giving them an ethereal glow. "The sparkles will pick up the light of the room. You'll be unforgettable."

He donned a black dress shirt, and pulled on his vest, which had strands of orange, yellow and gold threaded through the light fabric. His tie was the same, perfectly replicating the beauty of fire against the black of coal. John stared at his reflection in the mirror as Cinna helped him into his suit jacket. The face that stared back at him wasn't little John from district twelve. This was John Watson, Contender in the 74th Annual Hunger Games, with precision aim and a score of 11, and he was in it to win.

* * *

Watching the other interviews, waiting for his turn, was becoming increasingly intolerable. John wanted to get the blasted interview over with so he could return to his room and come up with tactics, strategies, and plans. He was only interested in hearing one person's interview, in seeing one person dressed to the nines, in listening to one chocolatey voice.

"Next up, Sherlock Holmes!" Caesar Flickerman was dressed to impress but he looked terrible next to the immeasurable beauty of Sherlock. His hair was perfectly tousled, his Cupid's bow lips perfectly highlighted, his dark clothing bringing our his creamy skin and fluorescent eyes. His dress shirt, he wore no jacket, was a deep plum, carefully opposing the porcelain column of his throat. The first two buttons were undone, and drew the eye to the delectable dip at the hollow of his neck. The shirt was tight enough that the buttons strained slightly, and John ached to rip them off one by one. His dark trousers made his legs seem miles long, and hugged a bit too graciously, John pointedly avoided staring at Sherlock's bottom.

As Sherlock sat in the plus chair for his interview, the purple shirt strained even more, and John heard every woman in attendance let out a breath unanimously. John grimaced but Sherlock didn't seem to notice the effect he was having on the audience or tributes. He simply looked around, taking in the crowd, and for a short time, his eyes met John's.

"So, Sherlock," Caesar tried to regain control of the situation and Sherlock nonchalantly returned his attention to his interviewer. "At training, we didn't see you approach any weapons stations, yet you got a shocking 10 in your session. We're all dying to know your secret."

"You'll have to wait a little longer, then," Sherlock smirked lopsidedly and John watched as Molly Hooper started to fan herself with her hand. "I can't reveal anything."

Caesar laughed. "Well then, I suppose I'll ask another question that we're all curious to know the answer to." He gestured to the crowd as if to prove his point. "You're not the first Holmes to enter the Hunger Games; in fact, is it true that your older brother, Mycroft Holmes, is a mentor for district twelve?"

John bit his lip, wondering his Sherlock would handle so awkward a question, but to John's surprise, the bright-eyes boy seemed to be expecting the question.

"We hardly know each other, Caesar. It won't affect either of our strategies. My father left District 12 when I was a child, and took me with him. He's no more than an acquaintance." Sherlock looked cold as stone, but John had a feeling Sherlock wasn't telling the truth. John found Mycroft in the crowd, and found that his expression perfectly mirrored his brother's. Based on the statement John had delivered to Sherlock to his brother, led John to believe that Sherlock knew Mycroft quite well, and that they were planning something. More than anything, he wanted to know what.

* * *

John's hands were shaking as he climbed the stairs to take his place next to Caesar on stage. He'd never had to speak in front of this many people, and he couldn't help the extreme anticipation that gripped him. He shot a wary smile at Caesar before sitting in his appointed chair.

"Now, John, we all know what happened on the day of your reaping." Caesar smiled sadly. John thought back to the reaping; it felt like so long ago when he last heard his sister speak. He swallowed loudly. Caesar continued. "Tell us what you were feeling when they called your sister's name."

John blinked slowly and looked into the crowd. He couldn't tell them what he really felt. He couldn't relay his intense hatred towards the Capitol for throwing a 12 year old, starving little girl into a fight to the death. He couldn't tell them how he had vowed that he would die protecting her. They wanted to hear strength, confidence, and a love for his sister, not hate, fear, and a desire for vengeance. So John gave them what they wanted.

"I couldn't believe it. She's the most important thing in my life, so I knew I had to take her place. I knew I had to win, for her. I promised her I'd win and come back to her." John let his voice crack at the end, and he knew Harry would be shaking her head. He didn't promise her that, because he couldn't. He didn't want the last thing he said to his baby sister to be a promise he couldn't keep.

* * *

That night was the longest night John had ever known. Sleeping was out of the question. How could he sleep with all the uncertainty of the next few days running through his head like wildfire?

Once he'd washed off the makeup and removed the suit, John was back to normal. He was little John from district twelve, again, who could patch up injuries good enough, and shoot a squirrel out of a tree, but he was nothing more. Nothing special.

He lay on his bed with his eyes clenched shut, trying to drown out the endless noise of his racing thoughts. He couldn't plan, planning was useless when you had no idea what you were up against. All he could do was wait, and the wait was killing him.

A soft knock on his door startled him. He sat up, though, grateful for any interruption from his raging emotions. He watched quietly as Mycroft Holmes entered his room, and shut the door silently behind him. Mycroft crossed the room and sat in a chair by john's bed, his face never betraying him, never showing any emotion or weakness. He sat for several minutes in silence, but John didn't pry. Mycroft would reveal his reasoning in time.

"John," when Mycroft spoke, it was pained. His voice betrayed what his face and mannerisms would not. He was scared for his brother. "Sherlock and I don't see eye to eye. We never have. But he's still my brother. I know we may seem cold to you, he and I, emotionless even, but that isn't the case. We learned very young that emotions were untrustworthy, and being alone protected us. That... Won't be the case anymore. Alone wont protect him."

John nodded, trying to catch up with Mycroft's words. Why was he saying this? What was it all for?

"I need your help, John. You're the only person he hasn't driven away or chosen to ignore. You're my only hope."

"What do you need?" John was confused now, what could he possibly do? "What do you want from me, Mycroft?"

"Protect him. For as long as you can." Mycroft was quiet when he spoke, and John got the feeling he'd never asked for help in his life.

"How can I do that?"

"You're clever, John, and you've got unbeatable aim. Sherlock is brilliant but reckless. Just... Stay with him. Keep him safe."

John shook his head sadly. "Only one of us can win."

Mycroft let the corner of his mouth turn upwards, just slightly, before replacing his impassive mask. "I'm not asking you to let him win, John. I'm asking you to protect him for as long as possible." Mycroft stood and made his way towards the door.

"I don't understand," John frowned.

Mycroft paused with his hand on the brass handle of the bedroom door. He turned his head slightly, so John could just make out his profile. "If everything goes according to plan, winning will be the least of your worries."

Mycroft left the room, letting the door bang behind him, and leaving John more confused than he'd ever been in his life.

* * *

**Mycroft likes to foreshadow! Next up, off to the arena! Please review :)**


	7. The Arena

**Hello again! Sorry that its been a few days, I started work, which means not enough time to write! I hope this chapter appeases you lovely readers though :) the panic attack bit comes from personal experience, I have them A LOT. They're scary! Sorry if this chapter sucks, I'm super tired but I really wanted to get another chapter out. As always, please please tell me what you think, reviews are my bread and butter!**

* * *

John Watson groaned as he awoke to fists pounding on the door erratically. He heard Effie yell something about a schedule, and John immediately froze. This was it. Today he would enter the arena. Today he would walk towards his death.

He barely noticed as his prep team cleaned him for the last time. They didn't add any makeup today, and no special clothes. Cinna put him in a track suit that matched all the other tributes. He pulled at the fabric slightly; it was tight but not uncomfortable. Cinna pointed out the insulating layer, and told John to prepare for cold nights, but warm days.

John was in a daze as he boarded the hovercraft that would take him to a small room, to wait until he entered the arena. He knew the gamemakers had a specific name for the room, but in the districts it was referred to as The Slaughterhouse. The final place of solitude before the chaos of the Games.

He hardly felt a sting as a Peacekeeper imbedded a GPS in his arm, and he tried not to look at the other tributes: people he'd be forced to turn against, people who would try to kill him. So instead he stared at his feet, and the soft, comfortable running shoes that had been part of his ensemble. He watched as another foot crept towards his own and kicked, ever so lightly. He looked up to find Sherlock Holmes, the man who had haunted his dreams since he met him, staring into his eyes.

Once Sherlock was sure he had john's full attention, he began to move his lips. John watched him mouth out the words of his promise: "find me. Follow me." John dipped his head just a little, a simple nod to Sherlock; no one had even noticed their conversation. John let out a breathe and closed his eyes as the hovercraft made its way to the Slaughterhouse.

* * *

He was brought to a small, bright room that was perfectly square. There was a metal hospital bed to one side, and in the corner was a large glass tube reaching from the floor to the ceiling. It was a menacing sight, the human-sized tube that would elevate him into the treacherous arena. These really were his final minutes in the real world.

For the first time since John woke up that morning, the numbness began to fade. In its stead was a sharp pain in his chest, and a startling tightness. His breaths came fast and short, and his hands began to shake. He gripped his stomach with his shaking hands and tried to stave off the feeling of dread that was creeping into his brain. He let out a dry sob, and managed to sit on the bed.

He was cradling his head in his hands, trying to fight off the horror, when the door to his chamber slid open. His mentor, Mycroft, entered the small room with a pronounced frown on his face. He laid a hand on John's knee and spoke softly. "Focus on your breathing, John. It's just a panic attack, very common. It'll go away soon."

John managed to compose himself shortly after Mycroft's arrival, and he stared hard at his mentor, his eyes threatening to spill tears he wanted to hold back. "What do I do, Mycroft?" He choked out. "What do I do?"

"What has Sherlock asked you to do?"

"Find him," John tried to control his pained voice. "He said to find him and follow him."

"Will you?" Mycroft's voice was quiet, thoughtful.

"I don't have another choice, do I?"

"No," he shook his head. "That would be your best option. But even if you change your mind, there is one thing you need to know. Do not go to the Cornucopia. Sure, there's weapons and food, but at least a third of the tributes die there, John. It's a bloodbath. Run away from the Cornucopia. Find Sherlock or find water."

John swallowed thickly. "But I'm of no use without a weapon."

"Make one. Use a stick and vines if you have to. Stay away from the Cornucopia or you'll die. You're good with a bow, but that's a long range weapon, it won't help you in the Bloodbath." Mycroft's brows were furrowed and John could tell that he was speaking from experience. Who knows how many tributes Mycroft had seen die, year after year, at the Cornucopia? Tributes he'd mentored, known from his district, or even ones from his own Games?

So John nodded. He wouldn't die in the Bloodbath.

* * *

Mycroft tried to relay help to John, but it was hard to mentor without known exactly what lay ahead of John. Still he listened as Mycroft told him that water and food were most important. Killing someone could help, but staying alive was the key. John nodded and tried to lay out a patchy strategy.

He wasn't getting far when a loud voice boomed out of a large speaker on the roof. "30 seconds. Please enter the tubes that will lead you to the arena. I repeat, 30 seconds." The metallic voice was harsh and emotionless, and he turned towards the clear tube. He stepped through the door and stood on the metal grate.

He stared at Mycroft through the glass of the tube and John watched him mentor shed a tear. "Good luck, John." His voice was rough and gravelly, not at all like his usual posh demeanor. "Stay alive. Trust my brother."

John nodded once as the grate under his feet began to move, pushing him up towards the arena, towards hell.

* * *

At first the light of the arena was blinding. It was bright sunlight (fake, replicated) but John's eyes soon adjusted and he saw the arena, his arena, for the first time.

There was trees to his right, a desert to his left, and a large lake behind him. In front of him lay the Cornucopia, a big golden horn, with weapons and food spilling out of it. Around the Cornucopia, at equidistant points, lay each of the pedestals, each holding a tribute. John scanned them, noticing how some looked scared, while some looked excited. He finally found who he was looking for, a few pedestals to his right, the jet black curls wild and unruly as those crystal eyes.

Sherlock noticed John and one corner of his mouth rose, just a little, a small smile reserved for John. Sherlock then turned his head so his nose pointed towards the forest. So that's where they would go, the forest. John nodded and returned to scanning the immediate area. They had 15 seconds left before the Games begun; 15 seconds before they could step off their pedestals.

John noticed an orange backpack a few feet in front of him. Surely he could reach the backpack and run off, before anyone had even noticed him. He glanced towards Sherlock, wondering what he would say. He was surprised to find that Sherlock was still watching him. The dark-haired boy nodded and shifted his eyes to the backpack in front of John. Good, then. If Sherlock thought it was a good idea, he'd go for it.

John looked back at the bright numbers above the cornucopia, signaling 5 seconds left. John readied himself to run, focusing only on grabbing the pack and finding Sherlock.

3..

2..

1..

An alarm sounded and John took off. He immediately heard screams, the Bloodbath had started, but kept his eyes trained on the orange pack in front of him. He couldn't afford to care about the people closer to the Cornucopia who were already killing each other.

Finally he reached the pack, and he snatched it up quickly. He'd check the contents later, right now he needed to be away from the Cornucopia. He ran towards the forest, trying to ignore the screams of agony and triumph not far away. He cringed internally as he heard one scream stop abruptly, a violent gurgling sound replacing it.

He looked up and grunted. Someone was between him and the treelike. Anderson, he thought the boy was called, was running at John full force, his intent to take the backpack. Well that wasn't going to happen. Sherlock and John needed this backpack, and if John had to kill this boy, then he would.

Luckily he didn't, because the boy stumbled right before he reached John, and he groaned as he heard Anderson's head crack off his knee, knocking the boy unconscious. John could only hope that the other tributes would assume he was dead and not kill him as he lay knocked out.

John couldn't dwell on the poor unconscious boy, but instead pushed himself towards the trees. Even if he didn't find Sherlock immediately, the forest would provide cover and he had less of a chance of being stricken by a stray arrow.

As John breached the trees he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He was at home in the trees. He felt at ease. He could hear other tributes bumbling about in the underbrush but John wasn't very worried; right now, the tributes would be focusing on getting far away from the Cornucopia, finding water, and regrouping. Or at least, that's what he and Mycroft had been counting on.

* * *

After running for ten minutes, John stopped hearing the telltale sounds of other tributes close by. After running for a few minutes more, John sat down on a fallen tree trunk and sighed, hoping he was far away from anyone else. He opened the orange backpack as quietly as possible and peered inside.

The pack was small, but John felt fortunate that he'd at least come away from the Bloodbath with something. Inside the pack were a few useful items, like a sleeping bag, a canteen (empty, John realized with chagrin), matches, rope, and a small knife. The knife wasn't large enough to use as a weapon, but it could help him whittle sticks to use as arrows.

John smiled at the contents of the pack, and was very glad he had a little extra. Now if only he could find Sherlock.

John had been too busy going through the contents of his pack, he didn't hear anyone creeping up behind him. He almost screamed as a hand wrapped around his throat and another covered his mouth. He was then pulled backwards, still clutching the orange backpack, going blindly to his fate with his unknown captor.

* * *

**Ooohhhh who is it? Jim? Sherlock? Molly? Mike? Feel free to guess in the reviews, first right answer gets a cookie!**


	8. The Meadow

**Hey! Sorry I've taken so long, work is taking over my life! But I have a few days off so hopefully I'll be able to churn out a few more chapters!**

* * *

John could hear the deep, steady breathing of his captor as he was pulled backwards through dense forest. A few times he would trip over an exposed root or a fallen branch, but the arms surrounding him would tense around him, steadying him quickly so they could keep moving.

After five minutes of walking (although John wouldn't call being forced backwards by an unknown assailant "walking"), they slowed, and John was pulled through a thick copse of trees. He looked around as much as the restraining hands allowed, and saw that the thick trees his what appeared to be a sort of meadow. It seemed safe enough, but John was worried that maybe this serene meadow would be his final resting place.

"Okay," an achingly familiar voice echoed from behind him, and the hands were removed from John's throat and mouth. "You can turn around."

He turned, and the slender boy who had led him here grinned. John was pleased to note that being in the arena hadn't yet dimmed his smile or his bright eyes. "Really, Sherlock? What's with the theatrics?" John couldn't keep his voice from cracking with happiness. He'd found Sherlock (okay, Sherlock had found him).

"It was an experiment. I was curious as to how you'd react," he shrugged as he sat on an upheaved root, poking through the contents of John's backpack. John sat on the mossy ground in front of Sherlock and studied the meadow he'd been dragged to. "I found this little meadow and thought it would be a good place to discuss strategy."

John nodded. "It's nice. It makes me forget we're in an arena filled with kids that want to kill us."

Sherlock snorted in response and pulled out the small knife, twisting it in his hands.

"I thought I could use that to sharpen sticks. You know, to use as spears or arrows." John pointed out and Sherlock nodded solemnly. The dark-haired boy then reached behind the upheaved root he was perching on and pulled out a bow from the grass. John gawked. "How did you get that? You said not to go for the Cornucopia."

"I got it off one of the boys from district five. Relax, John, I didn't kill him. I was running towards the forest, and he wasn't far behind me. A girl, Irene from district one, threw a knife and hit him in the back. It was too late for him, but I didn't want his bow to fall into the wrong hands. I trust you can start whittling arrows, I need to go check the surrounding area." Sherlock was emotionless as he described the death of the tribute, but John expected little else. He watched those inky curls disappear into the dense thicket and sighed.

* * *

John had been whittling for a few hours, judging by the fact that night had fallen, before he heard anything cut the silence around him. He was just placing his fortieth arrow in the backpack (his makeshift quiver) when a large cannon went off above his head. John jumped even though he knew the reasoning behind the blast. John cringed as he watched the Capitol emblem light up the deep blue sky above him. Next would be the pictures of the fallen tributes. He was nervous about the faces he might see. Sherlock? Mike? Molly? Lestrade? They were all so nice to him, he didn't want them to be gone.

John took a deep breath as he watched the Capitol emblem disappear, only to be replaced by a smiling face. Scott Dimmock from district two was dead. As was David Anderson from district three, the boy whom John had left unconscious at the Cornucopia. His breath caught in his throat when he heard the quiet wail that must have come from his fellow tribute, Sally Donovan. Next was the young, blond boy from district four, and the brothers from district five. Both the tall wiry girl and the short stumpy girl from district six were gone, as was the small boy from district seven. The young girl who complained about the seams of her costume was dead. The large boy from district ten, and the small malnourished boy from district eleven were gone as well. John's heart rose into his throat as he saw the final picture plastered on the skyline: from district twelve, Mike Stamford.

* * *

After John regained his composure, he counted on his hands. 12. Half the tributes were gone; they would never breathe this air again. It was a sad thought, the nice people from training just a few days ago, their bodies mangled and broken, picked up by a hovercraft and dumped in a grave. Mike Stamford would never see his family again, and John couldn't help but feel some blame himself. Why hadn't he watched over Mike more closely? Why hadn't he followed Mike instead of Sherlock? Why had it been Mike?

"Survivor's guilt, John." Sherlock's voice echoed behind him and John jumped at the sudden noise. When had he returned? "We can't change what's happened. Now, you're asking yourself the wrong questions, start asking the right ones. What do I do now? How do I win? What was Sherlock doing while he was gone?"

John allowed a small smile to cross his lips as Sherlock practically begged for attention. "Fine. What were you doing?"

Sherlock smirked. "I was scouting the area. I climbed a tree and sat there for a few hours. I now know the precise location of Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade."

"How do you know it's them?"

"I don't know, I see. Not far from us, towards the lake, is a fire. Now Irene and Moriarty aren't stupid enough to light a fire in the dark, neither is Lestrade or Sally Donovan. The boys from seven and eight also aren't that stupid, I spoke to them enough at training to know that. The girl from ten is allied with Irene and Jim, so it's not her, and the small girl from eleven was up a tree by the Cornucopia when I ran into the forest, and judging by her small stature, she's managed to stay there relatively incognito. That leaves the brunette girl from four and Molly Hooper. District four's industry is fishing, and the young girl, Angela, has been surrounded by water her entire life. It's safe to assume she's nearer the lake, familiar territory. She also made it very clear in training that she is absolutely incapable of making a decent fire, and Molly's fire has been going for over an hour."

John beamed at his companion. Did Sherlock know how absolutely brilliant he really was? Even if he did, John felt the need to remind him. "Fantastic! What about Lestrade?"

Sherlock's cheeks colored slightly at John's compliment, but he wasted no time in showing off again. "Lestrade's positioning was easy. He's very close to us. I noticed during training that he has a limp... Shush, John. Of course you wouldn't notice, it's barely noticeable, but I notice everything. Moving on... As I was leaving the tree I stumbled upon some practically invisible footsteps along the forest floor. One foot was clearly heavier than the other, it's always easy to identify a limp. Based on his stride and foot size, I was able to confirm that the indents on the ground matched Lestrade. I followed them and found the makeshift camp Lestrade has set up for himself, much like ours. He was out, probably gathering berries or other food, and would have definitely returned at the sound of the cannon."

"Brilliant! So, what now?"

"Well," Sherlock grimaced, "I suppose we go get them."

"Right now?" John peered through the darkness. How could he find people if he could barely see Sherlock sitting in front of him.

"They might be dead by morning. Especially if Molly doesn't put out that bloody fire. Anyway, I need Molly for my plan to work, and Lestrade is a good man, albeit a little daft."

John stood, then, and shouldered his bow and quiver of arrows. Sherlock stood as well and faced John. "Could be dangerous..." He mumbled into the small space between them.

"It's worth it." John smiled warmly at Sherlock, and he reached up to slowly trace the outline of one of Sherlock's impossible cheekbones. John expected him to recoil from the touch, but instead Sherlock pressed his cheek further into John's palm, and covered the strong hand with a thin wiry one of his own.

"Don't die, John." Sherlock's voice was deeper than usual and it struck John hard. He ignored the searing heat in his stomach and nodded, pulling his hand away before he did something impulsive. Instead, he reached for Sherlock's lithe hand and wrapped it in his own, entwining their fingers together.

"Let's go."

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**sorry it sucks! But I added in a little Johnlock at the end for you all :) as always please review!**


	9. The Rescue

**I'm back! Your reviews are so nice I love them! Keep them coming :)**

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The night was chilly and eerily quiet as John followed Sherlock through the dense forest, and he gripped his bow and arrow expectantly. He was a natural born hunter, so he was oddly comfortable sneaking through the underbrush. Sherlock's sense of direction was incredible, and he assured John every few minutes that they were going the right way. John would simply nod, they'd decided to talk as little as possible, and kept his bow string taught and ready.

They were hurrying towards Molly's makeshift camp, as John had agreed with Sherlock that anyone who saw the light of her fire would go after her. John just hoped they weren't too late. They'd decided to find her before Lestrade, because the brightness of the fire was worrisome, and John was sure that Lestrade could hold his own for a while longer.

Soon enough they saw a small light ahead of them through the gaps in the trees, and they increased their speed. The light got brighter and closer, and Sherlock froze in his tracks when he heard voices. John almost ran into the back of him, and opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock held out a hand which served to silence him immediately. They crept closer until they could peek into the small camp without being seen.

Molly Hooper was standing close to her fire, her delicate hands clasped as she muttered something unintelligible. She was cowering slightly, and her previously pristine bronze hair had branches and mud strewn throughout it. Her eyes were clenched shut and she was shaking her head anxiously.

"This'll go a lot smoother if you just tell me what I want to know, Hooper," a boy emerged from the shadows near Molly, and stepped into the ring of light. John recognized him as the tough boy from district seven. What was he playing at? "Tell me everything you know about Sherlock Holmes, or I'll make your death slow and painful. If you cooperate, it'll be quick and relatively painless."

"I don't know anything about him. No one does." Molly's voice was shaking, and Sherlock risked a sidelong glance at John, that told him exactly what he needed to do. John raised the point of his arrow and aimed right at the boy's heart. He sat, poised, and waited for Sherlock's signal.

"I've been told that that's not quite true. Now I'm running out of patience, and so is Mr Moriarty, so tell me what you know, now."

Sherlock held up a finger, signaling John to wait just a little longer. John complied but didn't relax his stance, and kept his weapon at the ready. He didn't trust the boy who was threatening defenseless Molly Hooper.

"Moriarty?" Molly was stalling. "Has he got you in some sort of a gang? You know he's just going to kill you later, right? He'll use you then kill you, just like you're doing to me."

The boy snarled at her, and began to lunge, but before he could attack, john's arrow pierced through his chest.

* * *

"It worked just like you said it would, Sherlock," Molly smiled, sliding a small golden ring off her index finger. She twirled it around in her hands a few times before slipping it back on. Sherlock barely grunted in response as he dug through Molly's pack and pulled out an exact replica of Molly's ring. He tossed it to John.

"Wear this," he said and pointed to a matching ring on his own index finger. John thought they looked a bit like wedding bands but he shook away the though anxiously and slipped the ring on his index. "It's a pulse ring. When someone with a matching ring comes near you it'll pulse, so you know someone has your back. Molly was notified when we got here. Now, put out your bloody fire and let's get moving."

* * *

The sun was rising as John, Sherlock, and Molly trekked towards Lestrade's hideout. Sherlock was mumbling to himself, spouting out the words "Moriarty" and "consulting" a lot, but he still managed to periodically turn and reassure John that they were on the right track. Molly told John about how Sherlock had approached Molly in her home the night before the reaping, asked her to volunteer and handed her a bag of gadgets and trinkets. He told her he would need her to sneak them into the arena. She laughed as she explained hiding the items in pockets sewn into her shirt, and how she wouldn't let anyone remove it because it would be undignified. Once she'd been allowed to step off the pedestal, she grabbed a backpack and ran. She'd built the fire so Sherlock could find her easily, but the other boy got there first.

John smiled resignedly and whispered quietly, "shouldn't you keep that to yourself? What about the cameras watching us?"

Sherlock stopped and spun on his heel, his ice blue eyes skimming over John's tanned face. He shook his head. "John," his voice was stern, "nobody has been watching us since the first hour."

"Right," Molly quipped, "they've got much bigger problems to deal with right now."

* * *

John pondered Sherlock and Molly's words as they searched Lestrade's abandoned camp. Nobody was watching them? But this was the Hunger Games, and it was mandatory viewing for every citizen of Panem. What were the 'bigger problems' that Molly had alluded to? And how were they sure?

After less than five minutes in the abandoned camp, Sherlock had easily worked out where Lestrade had gone. John asked him to explain, and Sherlock looked irritated, but John could feel pleasure at John's attention radiating off of him.

"It's simple, John, in fact I'm surprised even you couldn't pick up on it." Sherlock spoke haughtily but John didn't take offense. "Lestrade spent a lot of time with Anderson and Donovan from district two during training. He definitely returned here after I returned to you last night, as I can tell by the new scuffle marks from his trainers. He had lounges about here for a while, there's lots of berry pits and stems littering the ground, so he was eating. Then something happened which caused him to leave in a hurry, as shown by these long strides leading away from us. He wasn't running from an opponent, there's no footsteps near this camp other than our own. So he was running to something. Now what happened last night? The faces of the dead. Remember the scream that followed Anderson's? The only person close enough to him to react this would be Donovan. Lestrade is a caring fellow, he's gone to comfort Donovan. Obviously."

John happily offered up a few compliments that caused Sherlock to blush madly, but John was sure that if Sherlock could, he'd be purring.

* * *

**Sorry it's a bit short, I didn't have much time today to write this and post it! But yay we found Molly! No worries though, John and Sherlock are still going to be cute! Please review!**


	10. The Truth

**Hello! I'm back with another chapter, hope you like!**

* * *

Sherlock raced out of the camp once he caught Lestrade's trail, and Molly rushed out after him. John did a quick sweep of the campsite, just in case Lestrade had left anything useful, before following the pair from district nine.

As they walked, Sherlock adapted an almost bored composition as he traipsed through the woods, and John marveled at his ability to completely mask any trace of emotion that might give him away. Molly fiddled with a few of the other items Sherlock had thrust upon her, and she was currently messing around with what looked like a small rubber ball.

John walked to the rear of the other two, his bow poised at the ready. He'd been nervous by the lack of player interaction so far, but it was quickly pointed out by Sherlock that they had been deep in the woods, and that the majority of tributes were likely by the lake, which was where they were heading now.

John ached to talk to Sherlock; he wanted to ask him about his technologically advanced gadgets that Molly snuck in, ask how he knew so much about the arena and the people outside it, and even ask what the deal was with Moriarty. Well, he was a little hesitant to know the answer to that question, since he might find out something he didn't want to, and that thought made his heart tweak.

So, instead, he spoke quietly, knowing Sherlock would hear him, "what exactly did you do in District Nine?"

Molly opened her mouth excitedly to answer, but Sherlock silenced her with a look, and turned to John. "Take a guess."

"I'd say private detective, since you deduce and can follow basically anyone. You knew everything about me the moment you saw me, but..." John trailed off.

"But what?" Sherlock's gaze was steely and scrutinizing. John longed to be right so maybe some proudness could flash up in those cloudy orbs.

"Panem doesn't have private detectives." John shrugged.

Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards slightly before returning to its mask of nonchalance. "Officially, I am a scientist, along with Molly, and we work to solve the problems of the country. Sickness, technological failure, chemicals; we operate silently, the Capitol doesn't wish anyone to know about our existence; it might cause an unwanted shift of loyalty: from Panem to us. We operate in a large building that's mostly underground, the entrance disguised as a small toll shed in a nondescript wheat field. Board of Anonymous Regulators of Technology and Science. Barts for short. I was inducted as soon as the Capitol noticed my intelligence."

John was awestruck. He'd heard rumors of the mysteries of District Nine, but this was incredible.

"Unofficially," Sherlock continued, "I am the only consulting detective in the world. When the Capitol is out of their depth, they consult me. I've solved murders, petty crimes, elaborate heists, espionage."

John frowned slightly. "So, why are you here? Surely you're too important for the Capitol to throw you into these Games."

Sherlock laughed. "I told you, John, I volunteered. They couldn't do anything about it without revealing our existence to all of Panem. All of my recent cases have brought me just out of reach of one man, but he taunts me, wants me to come out to play. A few days before the reaping, I received a call that could only be from him, stating that he would be in the Hunger Games. So, obviously, I needed to also enter the Games." Sherlock shrugged. "I'm almost certain that my adversary is Moriarty, but I need more data. I can't make bricks without clay."

John was dumbfounded. Sherlock was so much more brilliant and amazing than John had even begun to imagine. He was deep and incredible, his brilliance was almost blinding, and John felt lost, wading aimlessly through the sea of light. So he spoke, softly and sadly, before he drowned in the excellence before him. "Why did you bring me?"

Sherlock's eyes were ablaze when John uttered the question, and fury danced through them as his nostrils flared.

"Why?" He asked incredulously. "Clearly you've never met yourself John. I entered the Capitol expecting to see bloodthirsty animals and weak children, all fighting for one thing, to win. I was mostly right. The exception was you. I saw you standing near your chariot at the parade and expected to know everything about you at a glance, like the others-"

"You did," John interrupted. Sherlock glared.

"Superficial. I couldn't see deep into your head. You're like a complex puzzle that I cannot solve, and you never do what I expect from you. Everyone else is so one-dimensional, but you... You are incredible. Your dimensions and complexity go far beyond the limits of possibility, and it's intoxicating. Your very being scrambles my brain, like nothing I've ever known. Never believe you are useless, John, you are a conductor of light." Sherlock's voice was thick as he recited his inner monologue, and at the end of it, he leaned his head close to john's; so close that their noses were brushing. His fiery eyes traced every inch of John's features, and John was beginning to go a bit weak in the knees. "I need you. I don't know why, but I do." Sherlock opened his mouth and whispered softly, his voice drifting quietly through the air like music.

Sherlock leaned forward a let his lips brush lightly over John's, and his eyes fluttered closed. John started to push forward, to actually allow their lips to touch instead of brush, but an alarmed scream cut through the air and they wrenched apart.

"Molly!" John yelled, but he was quickly silenced.

"John, I'm here. That wasn't me." Molly was standing rigidly still, as though she was scared to look around. "The scream was so close..."

"Sally Donovan." Sherlock said, grabbing John and Molly's wrists, pulling them towards the source of the echoing scream.

* * *

Molly was right, they were very close. Within minutes they stumbled out of the woods and found a body lying on the edge of the lake.

John rushed down towards the body. It was familiar. John didn't have to look at his face to know the body stretched on the shore. Gregory Lestrade. He grabbed the limp arm and thrust the body over, so Greg was lying on his back. Shakily, he lifted two fingers to the boy's neck and sighed.

"He's alive. Unconscious but alive. Why wouldn't they kill him?" He turned to Sherlock. "That's what the Hunger Games are about, killing people to win. So why is he just unconscious?"

Molly shrugged sadly, but Sherlock was moving anxiously. He flew around the scene, seeing things John couldn't see, his large mind twisting together clues to find the culprit. John couldn't help but admire his speed and efficiency in investigating.

"Right," Sherlock finally spoke, thrusting his hands in his pockets. "Just as I thought. Two girls and a boy came up to where Lestrade and Donovan were fishing with this wire. One of the girls, I believe the one from 10, was pacing, probably speaking as a representative of Moriarty. I can't tell exactly how long she spoke but it was quite a while. Then there's signs of a scuffle, where Lestrade probably got knocked out, probably by that boy from district 8, while the girl from 10 and the other girl, who was from district 4, pulled Sally Donovan away. They didn't kill Lestrade, probably because they gave him information he must relay to me, but they couldn't risk him following them. So far, so obvious. The sun is starting to set, let's build a camp and await Lestrade's awakening."

* * *

**Sherlock loves his John :). Hope you enjoyed! I love all your reviews 3 keep them coming!**


	11. The Heart

**Sorry for the wait, Christmas is getting close and I have too much to do! Anyway, please review, as always!**

* * *

Their first parachute arrived as they awaited Lestrade's awakening. It landed squarely in the middle of the circle of companions, so they were unsure for whom it was meant. Sherlock quickly opened the cylinder attached to the parachute and smiled slightly as he dumped the contents between them.

John almost squealed with glee as he watched various food items tumble from the cylinder. They hadn't had a proper meal since entering the arena, as squirrels and other wildlife were scarce. They made do with berries and various plants, but tonight they would feast.

John reached for a bread roll and Sherlock slapped his hand loudly, which caused Molly to break out in a stream of giggles. Sherlock glared. "You mustn't eat until I've counted. Eight potatoes, nine strips of beef, eleven bread rolls and twelve sausages. Excellent. Districts Eight, Nine, Eleven and Twelve are rebelling just as we'd speculated. All right, eat up then."

John seemed to have lost his appetite. "I'm sorry? Rebelling?" He choked a bit on the word. "Rebelling against the Capitol?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes of course, John, do keep up. This plan has been in the works for months. It would seem the citizens of Panem are disgruntled that their children fight to the death every year."

Molly piped up then, as it seemed Sherlock had said all he would on the matter, and John was clearly not satisfied with the answer. "John, a country shouldn't be ruled by fear. President Snow keeps the citizens in check, simply by hosting these Games. It started with a whisper. One Victor spoke quietly to a select few in his district. Then the word spread. Our country is desperate, John, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Mycroft Holmes spoke and the people listened."

"So why are you in here, Sherlock?" John asked, twiddling his thumbs. "I mean, didn't you want to be part of the rebellion?"

Sherlock choked out a laugh. "Have I ever given you the impression I care about politics? Or the government? All that matters to me is The Work. Why would I be out there, stuck in some boring political feud, when Moriarty is in here being so delightfully interesting?"

John groaned, "Sherlock."

"What?" Said the dark haired boy, his eyes suddenly soft. "Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah. How can you talk about this war so carelessly, when my sister could be dead in District Twelve!"

Sherlock shook his head and a small ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "Harry is fine, John."

John leapt to his feet and began pacing, his anxiety over Harry causing him to nearly burst. "Don't say that Sherlock. Don't say that unless you can promise me."

John didn't notice Sherlock get up from his seat on a tree stump and stand behind the sandy haired boy. He jolted when Sherlock grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to face those crystal eyes. "She's fine, I promise. While Mycroft was talking with you in the Slaughterhouse, ten of his men were bringing Harry somewhere safe."

John shook his head. "Why would he do that? Why would he do that for me?"

Sherlock simply laughed, a deep, joyous laugh and pressed his forehead against John's. "Because I told him to."

John couldn't help himself, he closed the small distance between them in an instant and he pressed his lips to Sherlock's. This kiss was different from their first (sort of) kiss. It quickly became urgent and searching; Sherlock wanted to know everything about John, and John wanted just a glimpse into the mind of Sherlock Holmes.

John felt Sherlock's tongue slide slowly and deliberately along his bottom lip and John parted his lips unconsciously. The moment Sherlock's tongue crept into john's mouth, the entire world around them seemed to fade away. John couldn't seem to remember where he was, what he was supposed to be doing, or how much time had passed. The only thing concrete was Sherlock's tongue dancing with his own, pressing but delicate, intrusive but not unwelcome.

When Sherlock finally pulled away, his smile was so bright John thought he might go blind.

* * *

"Sherlock, he's waking up!" John called from his spot near Lestrade. Night had fallen, and the moonlight sifting through the trees was soothing. Beside him, Lestrade opened his eyes and blinked once, twice, before groaning.

John handed him his canteen of water and helped Lestrade sit up. Molly sat not far from the two, and had pulled a few strips of beef and a bread roll for Lestrade to eat out of the parachute container.

Sherlock appeared next to them soundlessly. He'd been camping in a tree, watching for unwanted visitors, but he had insisted on being called the moment Lestrade awoke. He perched right next to John, eyes alight, and he stared at Lestrade, demanding answers.

"Tell me what happened," Sherlock hissed, "and don't be boring."

John made a face but Lestrade waved his hand in dismissal. "It's okay, John. Sherlock, do you know what you're dealing with? Don't give me that look, I'm serious. He's obsessed with you. He won't stop until you or he or both of you are dead. Do you understand that? He doesn't care what he does to reach you."

Sherlock snorted. "I am well aware of what he's capable of. I am also aware of what I'm capable of."

Lestrade shifted, and drank more water. "He snuck up on us. Just him. There was no one else. He'd tied and gagged Sally before I knew he was there, and he turned on me. He asked what I knew about you; I told him nothing save what we discussed at training: strategy and the like. Then he asked about John."

John blanched and he watched all the color drain from Sherlock's face. "What did you tell him about John?" He was frightened in that moment, the calm, collected detective had his eyes clenched shut and his jaw was taught. His breaths were labored and his whole body shook. "What does he know about John? Tell me!"

"He got no information from me. I don't know anything about John, save that he's a healer. That wasn't good enough for him, because he knocked me out, then."

"There's something you're not telling me," Sherlock's eyes were on fire and his words dripped with poison. "What did he say before you lost consciousness?"

Lestrade gulped. "He said he would burn the heart out of you."

* * *

**Hope you liked it! Hopefully I'll get a few more chapters up before the holidays but if not, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!**


	12. The Dream

**Sorry for the long wait, Christmas is chaos around my house :) well here we go, hopefully my lovely readers aren't too mad at me! 3**

* * *

John watched anxiously as Sherlock paced back and forth over the grassy turf. Leaves and detritus crunched quietly under his runners but the detective took no notice. It seemed like he was no longer a part of this world; his eyes were glazed and distant, his hands formed a steeple under his chin, and his mouth twitched anxiously, as if he was subconsciously shooting down ideas his mind presented him with.

Lestrade was feeling much better; after he ate the food Molly presented him with, John had checked him over for signs of broken bones or a concussion. Once he was satisfied that Lestrade was in peak condition, he resumed his post watching Sherlock.

He seemed to pace for ages, lost inside his head, too far gone to notice anything around him. John had tried to get his attention a time or two but it was all for naught.

John decided to sleep, then. He'd been sleep deprived since he entered the arena, and as it was quite clear that Sherlock was dead to the world for another few hours, he felt a short nap would be acceptable.

He found a soft patch of grass not too far from the others and he managed to snuggle into something of a comfortable position. It wasn't long before his eyes drifted closed and he slipped away into sleep.

* * *

John's dreams were vibrant and realistic. He was walking through a bright meadow, not unlike where he first spoke with Sherlock in the arena, only the flowers were much more vivid: violent shades of red and deep tones of black. In the middle of the meadow stood Sherlock Holmes in all his glory. His skin seemed more pale, though, and his cheekbones were more defined. In his spindly fingers, he gripped a needle, full of a sickly yellow fluid. John had seen plenty of needles before, but this needle seemed ominous somehow.

Carefully, Sherlock made his way towards John, and he opened his arms wide, as if to embrace him. John smiled and made to lean in. He wanted to hug Sherlock, and kiss him over and over until this bloody business was over. But Sherlock's small smile turned malicious and he dug that bright yellow needle directly into john's arm.

* * *

Did he scream? He didn't know. Was he screaming now? Another unknown. John felt numb; he wasn't sure where his limbs were, if he even had them anymore. Did he still have his arms? His legs? His nose? He couldn't tell, and that frightened him more than he cared to admit.

John didn't know how long he was suspended in a world of nothing; it could have been minutes, or days, or even years. Time meant nothing now. So John waited. What was he waiting for? A sign, perhaps. An end to this massive void he was part of.

Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, came a blinding pain. It emanated from where John assumed his right arm was, and it flowed like a river throughout his body, flooding it with a current of electricity, and John could feel it burn and rip through right to his bones. It was the worst pain John ever felt, and John wasn't sure he would survive.

"Please, god," he chanted in his mind, "let me live."

As if in response, a voice like chocolate and silk flowed through his body and numbed the pain; a familiar voice spoke softly, "John."

The darkness overtook him.

* * *

**Sorry it's short, I just really liked that spot to end it! Hope you all had a wonderful holiday season and keep those reviews coming!**


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